


Keeping Score

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Eye Candy (TV)
Genre: Banter, Blow Jobs, Disguise Kink, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Power Dynamics, Public Sex, Tropey as hell, Undercover as a Couple, Unsafe Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 07:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10589712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: Tommy finds himself between a rock and hard place when Bubonic shows up during an undercover assignment. His cover getting blown, it turns out, should have been the least of his worries.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Thanks to A. for the beta (sorry for throwing a 19-page file in an unfamiliar fandom your way!), and to S. for encouraging my obsession with this ship! ♥

 

The steady beat of the music drums through Tommy's body. He shifts uncomfortably and takes a sip of the colorful fruity cocktail the bartender served him, wincing at the sweetness. The mixture of sugar and alcohol goes to his head too fast, making him wish he'd opted for a club soda instead, but the rule of no drinking on the job is at odds with his need to blend in. 

He scouts the crowd, trying not to get distracted by the mass of grinding, male bodies down on the dance floor, wishing he was back at IRL with Sophia pouring him a drink and Connor talking his ear off about his latest dating woes. Even with Lindy's continued absence and all the bad memories, IRL still feels comfortable and familiar in a way Eden doesn't, despite the fact that he's been coming here every night for the past three days. 

Then again, it's hardly the location or the clientele that makes him feel ill at ease, but rather the situation. 

Since last December, five young men have disappeared who were last seen at the club. It would be a case for Missing Persons at best, if three of the victims hadn't resurfaced online, as the unfortunate stars of the worst kind of snuff movies, auctioned off to the highest bidder on a private, untraceable platform. It's the Babylon network all over again — except potentially worse, if there are indeed degrees to that kind of evil.

Homicide doesn't take it seriously because there are no bodies and the videos could well be fake, which left the case with CyberCrime and them with no lead except for Eden and its sketchy owner: Roger McCullen, 38, self-styled entrepreneur with a background in IT, and just the man Tommy has been looking for since Monday. Well, more specifically, his phone, but as it's usually attached to the man, they're a package deal that's proving to be more elusive than Tommy expected. He's caught glimpses of McCullen from the distance, up in the private area of the club, but so far he hasn't been mingling with the crowd.

Frustrated, Tommy checks his watch. 1:34. Time to call it a night, hope he'll be luckier tomorrow. He scans the club again for a final time, too focused on making out faces under the flashing lights to notice the shift in the air until it's too late.

"Hello, Tommy," someone says behind him, and he startles and almost spills his drink. "Fancy meeting you here. I didn't think this was your kind of scene." 

He _knows_ that voice, the way the inflection curls around his name, the mixture of taunting and amusement – he's heard it before: over the speakers at the Cyber Unit, on recorded messages while hunting down a phantom and, one memorable occasion, as he lay bleeding on the street outside IRL. 

Just because it's been a while doesn't mean he fails to recognize it. 

Twisting around, he meets amused blue eyes, and the sudden awareness that he's been face to face with this man before – that he's had him _right_ under his nose, in his own goddamn apartment, and let him go – makes him flush with embarrassment.

He has just enough presence of mind to set his glass down on the nearest table before he lets himself react on instinct, doing what he should have done the day when Bubonic had his belongings cleared out and almost got his dog killed. He grabs Bubonic's left wrist and twists it behind his back, forcing him to bend over as Tommy pushes his arm up higher to the point where it's got to be painful. He might not have his badge or a pair of cuffs on him, but that doesn't mean he can't make an arrest. An opportunity like this might not present itself again and he's —

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Shit. 

Shit. Shit. _Shit._

Roger McCullen is standing a short distance away, watching them with a guarded expression. He's framed by two stony faced, burly security details, keeping in the background but hardly aiming for inconspicuous. This wasn't how Tommy aimed to make his introduction – it's the equivalent to being caught reaching for the cookie jar, as close to revealing himself as a cop as it gets without actually flashing a badge. And that's just from the situation McCullen is witnessing, without the added risk of Bubonic running his mouth and selling Tommy out.

His mind is whirling, trying to figure out how to salvage this mess and avoid being dragged out to the back alley by McCullen's hired thugs and facing down the barrel of a gun. 

With his attention otherwise occupied, his hold on Bubonic must have loosened, because Bubonic twists out of his grip without any visible effort, brushing off his shirt. His eyes flicker from Tommy to McCullen, and he smiles in a way that has Tommy instinctively clenching his fists. 

"Sorry, we got carried away. Tommy here likes it rough, and I'm always happy to play."

Tommy blinks.

That's... not what he expected. 

He can't help but notice how Bubonic's entire demeanor has changed. It's like his sharp edges have been smoothed out, anything threatening wiped away. He hasn't entirely shrugged off the air of perpetual amusement, but the smug notion of superiority that usually goes along with it is gone. 

Tommy has a flash of _déjà-vu_ back to the day at his apartment, the seemingly genuine startled expression on Bubonic's face when Tommy pulled his gun on him, how he seemed so hapless that Tommy had dismissed him as a threat right away. He's doing the same thing again now, and it's fascinating to watch, knowing that it's all an act. Someone who spends most of his time manipulating the world from behind the safe distance of a computer screen clearly has a better talent for undercover work than a cop. The irony isn't lost on Tommy.

He gives McCullen what he hopes to be a sheepish look and shrugs. "Yeah, sorry, man. Kinda forgot we were in public." 

McCullen still hasn't lost the suspicious, narrow-eyed look, and Tommy figures he should probably get out of here as soon as he can. Bubonic seems to have other ideas, though, sidling closer until he's all but plastered against Tommy's side. He bends his head and fucking _nips_ at Tommy's neck, playful and intimate, entirely inappropriate, and Tommy has no idea what to do with that, how to react.

"As if that has ever stopped you," Bubonic teases. The warmth of his body seeps through Tommy's clothes, making him feel hot and feverish. 

From where he's standing, McCullen can't possibly see Bubonic's face – but Tommy can, can see that smirk that says he's enjoying himself decidedly too much, the silent challenge in his gaze. 

He has to remind himself that shoving Bubonic off would be a bad idea, but he'll be damned if he lets the little shit just get away with this. With his hand curving around the back of Bubonic's neck a bit too tightly for comfort – _Still happy to play rough, eh?_ , he thinks viciously – he pulls him in further. Puts on a smile that probably has more teeth than humor. 

"You have no idea what I want to do to you right now," he stage whispers, faux-intimate, just loud enough to be overheard. What he wants to do to him, really, involves a pair of handcuffs, reading Miranda Rights and locking him in a cell to rot, and he's counting on Bubonic to know that. He's happy to let McCullen draw his own conclusions, though.

Annoyingly enough, even though he has to recognize the threat for what it is, it does nothing to discourage Bubonic or wipe the grin from his mouth. If anything, it stretches wider. "Oh, I may have an idea or two," he drawls. Some of the old edge is seeping back into his tone. "I'm looking forward to it." 

There's just no winning with him, is there?

At least their little display seems to have mollified McCullen. "No need to apologize." He gives them a once-over that makes Tommy feel dirty, making him feel more uncomfortable than Bubonic's touches have, despite the fact that there are a good six feet between them and McCullen. "In fact, why don't you come join me up in the VIP area. I promise you'll have to suffer fewer interruptions there. Not necessarily fewer prying eyes, but something tells me you don't mind the attention."

Tommy is still trying to think of a way to say 'thanks but no thanks', when Bubonic chirps, "We'd be thrilled." 

"Excellent. Come along then. You're my guests for the night."

"You're too kind. This is Tommy, I'm Charlie." He holds out his hand for McCullen to shake, but his eyes flicker towards Tommy, making him wonder if the name is more for his benefit than for McCullen's. It makes no sense, because it's probably not even Bubonic's real name. But Tommy can't deny that it's good to have something to call him other than the name of a medieval disease, especially if they keep up this charade any longer.

He nods along numbly as they make introductions and small talk. When McCullen leads them towards the stairs, he follows for a moment before gathering his wits, grabbing Bubonic's – Charlie's, he mentally corrects himself, he has to start thinking of him as Charlie or else he'll give their game away pretty fast – grabbing _Charlie's_ wrist to stop him. 

Tommy pushes him against the wall and steps closer, lowering his face to the crook of Charlie's neck so he can whisper in his ear. With any luck, it'll look like he's just horny and desperate to get his hands on the guy rather than the attempt at subterfuge it is. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" he mutters between clenched teeth. 

The soft curls of Charlie's hair tickle his forehead, and he catches a whiff of shampoo and aftershave, a strange but not unpleasant mixture of sweet and sharp.

Fingers card through his hair, and for a second it feels startlingly good. Tommy's caught too much by surprise to twist away, before suddenly the grip tightens and his head is pulled sharply to the side. He tries to shake off the hold, but Charlie's mouth is right at his ear. His lips brush against Tommy's skin as he speaks, mirth swinging in his voice, like all of this is a game to him. "Relax, Detective. It appears that our interests align, for once. I need access to the server room, which just happens to be up in the private area. Looks like you're my ticket in there. So be a good cop, stop breaking character and play along."

Tommy bristles at the smug condescension, but he can't deny that Charlie has a point. It'll be much easier to get dirt on McCullen when he has the man's attention. A hell of a lot more dangerous, too, though. Especially when he's following the script of a sociopathic hacktivist with a grudge who might at any point blow Tommy's cover just because he can. 

He has half a mind to say 'the hell with it' and pull the plug on the job right there when Charlie tugs Tommy's head back and, without giving him the chance to pull away, leans in to bring their mouths together. A quick, dirty kiss, his tongue flickering against Tommy's lips and using the moment of confusion to slip inside and explore. Hot and wet and bold, gone before Tommy can react.

From the middle of the staircase, McCullen whistles at them. "You boys really can't keep your hands off each other, now, can you?" He sounds altogether too pleased.

The grin Charlie levels Tommy's way is wicked. 

Tommy averts his eyes. His lips are still tingling from the kiss, and his traitorous dick is a lot more interested than it has any right to be.

 _Fuck._ That's not what he signed up for when he told Shaw, 'Sure, I can do this. I'll have a look around, see if I can get close enough to McCullen to mirror his phone. Piece of cake. No need to bring in Vice. I'll be in and out with the intel before you know it.' Except no one told him he'd be making out with CyberCrime's most wanted on the way there.

McCullen leads them up the stairs and across a narrow steel walkway passing over the heads of the dancing crowd, past more security guards who step aside when McCullen approaches. Taking stock of the surroundings, a queasy feeling settles in the pit of Tommy's stomach. If anything goes wrong, they'll be hopelessly outnumbered – and that's even assuming that Charlie won't put a knife, figurative or literal, in his back. He doesn't like it, but there's no way to retreat that won't arouse suspicion and put them at an even bigger risk. At this point, the only thing left to do is play along and hope for the best. 

The VIP area is all sleek black leather couches, mirrored walls and a well-stocked bar. McCullen motions for them to take a seat, sitting down in the chair across and spreading his arms like a proud king in his castle entertaining his guests. "What can I get you?"

Tommy really doesn't need any more alcohol in his system, not when he's right in the lion's den, surrounded by people he cannot trust. On the other hand, it would seem impolite to turn down the offer. 

"Beer's alright," he compromises.

Charlie doesn't seem to share his qualms. "Nothing for me, I had quite enough already. No fun in getting too messed up," he says with a conspiratorial smile aimed at McCullen. His fingers trace the inseam of Tommy's jeans, the touch so light that he barely feels it. Charlie isn't even looking at him, making the gesture seem habitual and absent-minded. An involuntary full-body shudder runs through Tommy that he's powerless to stop. He knows Charlie felt it when his hand slides upwards and rests on his thigh. He suspects that it's supposed to be steadying, reassuring, but it's anything but.

A shirtless, well-built waiter in black leather pants who looks barely old enough to be out past midnight, much less serve alcohol in this kind of club, drops an open bottle of Budweiser on the table in front of him and a whiskey for McCullen, who reaches up to squeeze the guy's ass. 

Tommy takes a swig from the bottle, trying to come up with a game plan, taking stock. McCullen is now close enough that the software the Cyber Unit put on Tommy's phone should be able to connect to McCullen's and download the data, which is good – except he's way too fucking close for comfort. And Charlie said he needed to find the servers, which he can't do as long as he's sitting here feeling Tommy up, but if he left now it would only arouse suspicion. From the way McCullen is watching them, and judging by his words back down on the ground floor when he introduced himself, it's fairly clear that he expects them to put on a show, and that's not what Tommy signed up for when he took this job.

He reaches into his pocket and takes out his phone, pretending to check his messages when he's really flicking on the app to mirror McCullen's phone. 

_Out of range_ is still blinking in green on black letters. Jesus. Just how close does he have to get?

The device is suddenly snatched from his hand as Charlie slides closer. He takes a look at the screen and frowns. "You promised to leave work at the office for once, Tommy. You know how I get when you ignore me." 

When Tommy lunges for the phone, Charlie holds it out of reach and twists around to put it on the table. _What the fuck?_ It takes Tommy a moment to realize that Charlie placed it not just as far away from Tommy as he can reach, but at the same time as close to McCullen as possible, right next to the man's glass. Right. Not a bad move, actually. 

Somewhat mollified, Tommy wills himself to relax and follow Charlie's lead. "Sorry, force of habit." 

What's meant to pass for an apology probably looks more like a grimace. He still feels awkward and uncomfortable, unsure where to put his hands with Charlie all but sitting in his lap and McCullen's eyes fixed on them like a hungry predator waiting to pounce. 

Why did he offer to do this again? 

It was bad enough going undercover with Lindy, having to act like a couple under the watchful eyes of Yeager and the others. He's a good cop, he has all the right instincts and he's pretty damn good at reading people, but he's bad at this. He's actually fucking _terrible_ at this, and it's probably going to get him killed. It doesn't help that his head is swimming, that he's had too much to drink and he can't be sure the beer hasn't been drugged. Doesn't help at all when he's got a lapful of smart-as-a-whip, pain-in-the-ass hacker who knows exactly which of his buttons to push, and who Tommy has to constantly remind himself isn't someone he should even consider trusting, with all their bad history.

But Charlie shifts against him, making Tommy's cock give an interested twitch in response, too obvious for Charlie to miss, and if the gut-punch of lust won't kill him than the humiliation certainly will. 

Charlie grinds against him again, this time on purpose, and Tommy's hands settle on his hips, stopping him or pulling him in – either, both, he isn't sure anymore. 

"Are you with me, Det—"

Charlie stops himself just in time, and for a split second that expression of unshakable, self-satisfied amusement slips and morphs into panic. It's gone as fast as it came, and Tommy might have missed it if he didn't have a front row ticket, if their faces weren't so close that he can feel Charlie's breath against his face. He lets his hand wander up Charlie's side to curve around his neck, feeling the frantic race of his pulse under his thumb.

It should be scary, the idea that Charlie's losing control so badly that he almost slipped up, but there's a part of Tommy that likes knowing that he's not the only one affected. For all his facade of superiority, Charlie is getting caught up in his own game. Dangerous or not, that's one hell of a turn-on.

Tommy's grip tightens. "I'm with you," he replies, and pulls Charlie into a kiss. 

He crushes their lips together with all the force of the muddled mess of emotions he's been riding tonight and the pent up frustration of having been at the center of Charlie's twisted games for too many times within the last two years. It's anger and desire, reassurance and punishment all rolled into one. 

Charlie's mouth opens too readily under his, and Tommy licks into his mouth, tongues tangling. He doesn't know anymore if he's still playing a role or if this is all him. All the lines are blurring and it's fucking him up, and he doesn't give a shit.

When he moves back, Charlie's pupils are blown wide, the black almost swallowing the blue of his irises. His lips are red and spit-wet, and the artificial light of the club makes the rising flush on his cheeks stand out in a crimson glow. 

He's fucking _pretty_. 

Tommy never really thought about what Bubonic looked like under the mask. Sure, they had a bunch of suspects back when they first went after him. In an abstract way, though, it was all but impossible to imagine Bubonic without his signature plague doctor disguise. Except here he is, unmasked, looking far too young and innocent for the kind of havoc he's been wreaking, and the dichotomy is as disconcerting as it is exciting. 

Tommy idly trails his thumb over Charlie's lush, kiss-bruised lips, punch-drunk on desire that ratchets up another notch when Charlie closes his mouth around the digit and lets his teeth catch. Tommy draws in a sharp, stuttering breath, prompting Charlie to smirk and raise an eyebrow. Whatever temporary uncertainty had him in his grip after his little blunder seems to be wiped away thoroughly and replaced by the familiar smug mischief, the lopsided twitch of his mouth that says _I dare you_.

He's wearing that same expression as he pulls away and slides off the couch, down to the floor until he's kneeling between Tommy's legs. His hands settle on Tommy's thighs with intent and— Fuck, he's not getting a blowjob right in front of the guy he's investigating, in a semi-public area with God knows how many people watching. That's not going to happen.

Except Charlie's popping the button of his jeans and pulling down the zipper, and Tommy's doing nothing to stop him. 

His eyes flicker towards McCullen, who's leaning back in his seat with an lecherous expression that makes Tommy's stomach turn, then ever so briefly down to his phone on the table. How long has it been? Pascal said the process should take ten minutes, give or take, depending on how much data McCullen has on his phone, but Tommy's perception of time is shot to hell. The kiss could have taken five minutes or five seconds. It felt rushed and impossibly drawn out all at once.

In front of him, Charlie catches his gaze, inconspicuously shaking his head. Not long enough, then. If that's even what Charlie's trying to tell him – he might just as well be warning him to stop looking at McCullen. Kinda hard when your life depends on your ability to read someone's non-verbal clues when all your previous interaction was limited to threats and mind games.

There's no mistaking Charlie's intention when his hand slips into Tommy's boxers, though, and Tommy is going to stop him, he _is_. But Charlie's fingers are soft and cool and they feel so good wrapping around his half-hard cock.

He can't escape the intensity of the blue-eyed stare fixed on face, and he wonders what it is that Charlie sees there, if Tommy's internal struggle and how badly he's losing it is written plainly all over him. Then Charlie pulls down the waistband of the boxers to free Tommy's cock and in one smooth motion bends down and swallows him, and Tommy's brain short-circuits. 

His head drops back against the sleek cushions, and he closes his eyes, willing himself not to get lost in the sensations. It's no use. His mind is swimming and he can't focus on anything but the tight, wet heat of Charlie's mouth. His hands uselessly clench against the leather of the seat in an attempt to stop himself from reaching for Charlie. 

For a moment, they stay like this: Tommy lying back, staring at the shadows moving across the ceiling and desperately trying to stay in control. Charlie's lips wrapped around his shaft, unmoving, except for the way every breath he takes sends tantalizing, minuscule vibrations down his throat. 

The tension builds and stretches further and further – like a rubber band about to snap, like the cursor at the end of a command line blinking and waiting for someone to press enter. In the end, Tommy's the one who hits the button, almost inadvertently, raising his head to look at Charlie when the temptation becomes too much.

Their eyes meet, and the way Charlie _smirks_ around a mouthful of cock is the hottest and most obscene thing Tommy has ever seen. Then Charlie's right hand wraps around the base of Tommy's hard-on, fingertips accidentally-on-purpose brushing against his balls in a way that has him pulling in air in a hiss of breath. It's nothing compared to the sensation when Charlie starts moving, though. In a smooth, deliberate slide, his lips drag up and down Tommy's shaft. The suction and heat alone would be enough to drive Tommy crazy but the sight of it— God, the _sight_ of it, watching his dick slide in and out of Charlie's mouth...

It's easy to forget where they are and why, forget that McCullen is watching them, forget the flashing lights, forget the incessant beat echoing from the speakers and the noise of people's conversations around them. Have the world narrow down to just the two of them – the steady bob of Charlie's head, the way his fingers rhythmically clench around Tommy's cock, those little sounds he probably doesn't even know he's making.

Even though he doesn't want to look away and miss a single moment of this, Tommy's eyes flutter shut. He feels like floating, light-headed and dizzy, like all the air has left his lungs and went straight to his head. His breath comes fast and heavy.

Charlie licks a warm, moist stripe up the underside of his cock at the same time as his fingers snake down and press against the tender flesh behind Tommy's balls, and his orgasm hits him so suddenly it feels like plummeting down a rollercoaster at full speed. He releases a strangled moan and involuntarily slams his hand against the leather of the couch, the sound cutting through the noise of the club like a whiplash. 

Trying to catch his breath, Tommy keeps his eyes shut and wills his racing heart to calm down. As his mind clears, the aftershocks of his climax ebbing away and reality settling back in, his thoughts remain a jumbled mess. 

Reluctantly, he sits and looks up, gaze falling on McCullen first, who's still watching them with sharp-eyed interest. At least he doesn't seem inclined to offer commentary. Tommy catches Charlie's gaze just as he's standing up, brushing off his jeans. The twist of his mouth as he wipes at his lips with his thumb and then licks it clean makes Tommy swallow hard. He wonders if he's supposed to reciprocate, and maybe the uncertainty is written over his face because Charlie lets his eyes drift down to Tommy's phone briefly with the raise of an eyebrow before turning to McCullen. 

This time, Tommy has the perfect position to watch Charlie's expression go from sharp and focused when he had his back to McCullen to gullible and innocuous, his lips pulling into a guileless smile. 

"Bathroom's down that way?" he asks, pointing towards the corridor they came from.

McCullen shakes his head. "That one's always crowded. There's a private one. Behind the bar to the left," he says, and Tommy has to stifle a laugh. Watching Charlie manipulate people without lifting a single finger is one hell of a show when he's not the one on the receiving end. 

He uses the moment McCullen's attention is elsewhere to pull up his boxers and fasten his pants, fingers fumbling clumsily with the zipper.

When Charlie has left, McCullen turns to him. "Quite something, your boyfriend there."

The 'boyfriend' part almost makes him stumble, and he bites his lip to stop himself from protesting. He makes a noncommittal sound, aiming for casual nonchalance. "He likes playing games."

"More than you do, I assume," McCullen remarks, honing in on Tommy's discomfort like a bloodhound.

He shrugs and flashes a smile. "I don't mind indulging him now and then." 

Leaning forward to take his phone from the table, he inconspicuously switches it on with the screen angled away from McCullen. The _download complete_ status message makes him breathe a quiet sigh of relief. He closes the app and checks the time. It's half past two. He has two missed calls from the unit and a text message from Yaeger telling him to check in. With quick fingers, he types a _'Still out. Got lucky.'_ text that won't raise suspicion to anyone potentially looking over his shoulder but should clue in the Cyber Unit about his success mirroring McCullen's phone. Considering how the night unfolded, he's glad that he opted against wearing a wire; at least he doesn't have to worry about explaining what happened to Shaw and the others. 

_'k, be safe,'_ Yeager texts back, making Tommy snort. 

He flicks the phone off and pockets it, too self-conscious about using it under McCullen's watchful eyes. To his relief, the man doesn't bother involving him in further small talk, probably taking Tommy's caginess for awkwardness or embarrassment. 

He nervously bounces his feet and stares at the door through which Charlie disappeared to, willing him to finish up so they can get out of here already.

When he's still not back after ten minutes, Tommy starts to worry. Part of him thinks that Charlie did what he came for and split, leaving him to explain his disappearance to McCullen – and he can just about imagine how well that would go. There's something else, though. Physically, Charlie fits the profile of the missing guys a little too well, and for a horrible moment Tommy's imagination goes haywire and he imagines having to watch Charlie's throat get slit on high-definition video the next day.

He checks his phone again. 2:46. Fourteen minutes.

He's just about to get up and go looking for him when the door next to the bar opens and Charlie comes back, pushing through the crowd waiting to be served. 

The relief on Tommy's face must be palpable, because Charlie quips, "You look like you were afraid I got lost and were just about to come and get me."

It hits a little too close to home. Tommy can't bring himself to joke it off, too tired and too drunk to go for anything but honesty. "Something like that."

With a curious expression, Charlie searches his face. The blue of his eyes is too bright, the stare too piercing, and Tommy looks away.

"We should get going," Charlie says softly. He turns to McCullen. "Thank you for your hospitality. It's been a... pleasure." His lips twitch.

"The pleasure was all mine." McCullen reaches out to touch Charlie's arm, and Tommy feels an abrupt urge to punch him that has nothing to do with the fact that McCullen is a creep of the worst kind and everything with the sudden realization that watching McCullen put his hands on Charlie makes Tommy feel sick. His hands ball into fists, nails digging into his palms so hard it hurts. Fuck. He needs to curb those possessive urges before they can take hold. 

As they part, McCullen tells them to come back soon. Charlie chuckles. 

"Oh, don't worry," he says. "You'll hear from us real soon." 

He sounds eager and McCullen swallows it up all too readily, failing to register the threat in the words that's so plainly obvious to Tommy.

They make it down the stairs and Tommy pushes through the dancing masses towards the exit, both in a hurry to get out of there and dreading facing Charlie without having to keep up appearances. How's he supposed to act? There's no fucking rulebook for this. Arresting him would be bad form, he supposes, but it's not like they ever held a civil conversation without one or both of them playing a role. 

Tommy opens the door and steps outside, the cool night air hitting his face – a sobering sensation that tears through the surreal feeling that's been clouding his senses during the past hour. 

He turns around but there's no one behind him. 

Charlie's gone. 

The bouncer gives him a sideways look, like he doesn't quite know what to do with the drunk guy lingering in the entrance who seems to have misplaced his date. 

"Did you see—" He stops himself and forces a smile. "Never mind. Just. Weird night. I should go home."

In his back pocket, his phone vibrates. When he fishes it out, there's a text message from an anonymous sender. _You owe me an orgasm. Get home safely. Sweet dreams._ He snorts and pockets the phone.

*

He doesn't figure out that, despite the anonymity, the message comes with a call-back button until late the next morning when Detective Pascal hands him back his phone after downloading the data he got from McCullen. He frowns and stares at the screen. If he can call Charlie, does that mean it's traceable? It would be easy enough to set the Cyber Unit on it, have them try to track down Bubonic. 

He does no such thing. 

He takes his lunch break and goes to the coffee shop around the corner, gets a latte and lets his finger hover over the little telephone icon for half a minute before pressing down. 

It rings three times before a familiar voice greets him. "Hello, Tommy," Charlie says, and that's all it takes to transport Tommy right back to last night. The press of Charlie's body against his own, the wet heat of his mouth around his cock, the scent of his aftershave.

Shit. He needs to get a grip. 

He pushes the memories away, letting Charlie's teasing, "I hadn't picked you for a 'call the morning after' guy" distract him.

"Funny, because I thought you'd be exactly the kind of guy who ditches a date right after a hook-up," Tommy quips back. "I take it you got what you wanted?" 

As an afterthought, he adds, "From McCullen's servers, I mean", before he realizes how that makes it sound, how it implies that there was even a need to specify. 

He knows that Charlie caught on to the misstep when his chuckle comes through the line, a smooth, pleased sound. "I always get what I want." 

The double entendre brings a flush to Tommy's cheeks, hot and uncomfortable. He wonders if Charlie is just saying it to rile him up or if he means it. If he really wanted it – wanted _him_ – or if it was just a necessary means to an end, a way to get to the servers and perhaps get some leverage on Tommy along the way. It shouldn't matter. It doesn't. 

Except it does, because Tommy can't stop second-guessing what happened, and it makes him feel more even wrong-footed than he usually does when dealing with Bubonic.

"I don't suppose I can convince you to share? It could help us build a case." He knows even before he finishes the question that it's pointless. Whatever his personal qualms with McCullen, there's no way Bubonic is going to willingly help the police.

Charlie scoffs. "Really, Tommy? You think McCullen is the kind of guy who can be stopped by a court of law?"

It's the kind of hacktivist vigilante logic that makes Tommy's blood boil. "Yeah, I do. I think anyone can be stopped and held accountable by the legal system. We get evidence, we make an arrest, they go away, end of story." He takes a sip from his coffee, but it's still too hot and burns the roof of his mouth, making him wince.

"How well did that work out with Hamish Stone, exactly? Or me for that matter." The taunt falls flat when he continues, "You know what the problem is with people like you and your Sergeant Shaw? You have no trouble playing outside the rulebook when it suits you, but when other people do it, they're the enemy who needs to be hunted down." 

All trace of humor is gone from his voice, replaced by a bitterness that's a little too raw to be brushed off, and Tommy can't quite resist the urge to justify himself, even when he knows he shouldn't have to.

"That's not true. I just believe that side-stepping the law should be a last resort rather than the go-to approach." He can be flexible enough if he has to, has been in the past when working with Lindy – fuck, he was _last night_ , but the 'if he has to' part is key. "It's a slippery slope. If everyone ignores the rules because they operate on a 'by all means necessary' basis, things are gonna get real messy and innocent people get caught up in it." 

He knows he's made a mistake the second he says it, but it's already too late to take it back.

"And we all know no innocent people ever get caught in the crossfire of the Cyber Unit. Please, Detective Calligan, enlighten me about how your methods are clearly above reproach." Charlie spits the words with a crisp, clear tone, and the rage buried underneath is so cold it could glaze over the East River on a summer day.

Frustration makes Tommy drop his head into his hands, almost knocking over his coffee. Starting a fight wasn't what he had in mind when he called Charlie. He doesn't know what the purpose of reaching out was, but it wasn't this. "I didn't say that. We mess up. We make mistakes and bad choices and people die. It shouldn't happen, but it does. But don't pretend that it's the same thing as you playing judge, jury and executioner."

"You 'mess up'. It's funny you say that. I wonder, would you still call what happened a _mistake_ if you had succeeded in capturing me? Lisa dead in her cell, but me in prison – would you still consider it a failure? Would your Sergeant Shaw?"

Tommy closes his eyes and rubs his forehead. It feels oddly like the day Lindy confronted him about how they had used her to flush out Bubonic. Charlie's anger evokes the same mixture of regret and righteous agitation as Lindy's did, and he's caught between apologizing and justifying himself, knowing that neither will get him anywhere. 

What surprises him is how badly he wants the air between them to be cleared. It made sense with Lindy – he cares for Lindy, not just because she's a genuinely good person but also because he _likes_ her. More than that maybe, once. He doesn't like Charlie or care for him; he shouldn't, anyway. And yet. 

"I don't know, man. I honestly don't. Only thing I can tell you is that I'm sorry for my part in it. And I know it's not going to be enough, but it's all I have."

There's silence on the other end of the line, and for a moment, Tommy worries that Charlie already ended the call, that Tommy's words may have pushed him into another raged-filled knee-jerk reaction that'll end in bloodshed.

"Char—"

"It'll have to be enough, won't it?" He still sounds resentful, but mostly tired, and not the kind of tired where too little sleep and the bad choices of the past night are catching up with you.

"Look, Charlie, I —" 

Charlie interrupts him again. It might well be a good thing because Tommy honestly has no idea what he was going to say.

"Goodbye, Tommy. Good luck with your case," Charlie says. Then the line goes dead.

Tommy stares at the screen for a moment. He should let it go, he thinks, and hits redial anyway. 

A well-modulated female voice tells him the number is no longer in service. It's probably for the best.

*

They spend two long, intensely frustrating weeks doing their best to pin McCullen down. 

It goes just about as well as Charlie had predicted. They got plenty from McCullen's phone – calendar entries, his contacts, his call history, even two snapshots capturing what could possibly be one of the victims kissing another guy leaning against the VIP area bar at Eden. None of it is enough to connect him to the disappearances, and certainly not to the movies.

They bring him in for questioning and Tommy gets in his face, becoming so angry at McCullen's casual brush-offs and none-too-subtle insinuations that Yeager has to pull him out of the room. 

When Catherine announces they'll have to let McCullen go, Tommy kicks at his chair so hard that it slides right across the room, bouncing off the wall.

They've got _nothing_. All the surveillance, the probing into his private life, Tommy going undercover to get insight into his business – it all amounts to zero in the end. They can't even get him for tax evasion like Al freaking Capone. For all intents and purposes, the guy is as squeaky clean as they come. 

The website goes dark pretty much right after McCullen walks free, and yeah, maybe that's the deed of a guilty man trying to cover his tracks, but it's circumstantial at best, one hell of a coincidence at worst. Chasing after phantoms on the Dark Web is frustrating, but it has nothing on having someone you know to be a stone-cold psycho killer right there in the interrogation room and being forced to let him walk.

*

Five days later, Tommy arrives in the morning to find Catherine clearing the white board. His mood plummets. 

"Don't tell me we're closing the case."

She turns around. "There is no case anymore. They found McCullen's body at the container port with two bullets in his chest and one in his brain. Mob-style execution. Organized Crime's on it."

Her news is not quite what Tommy expected. He frowns. "How did that happen?"

"From what we gather? The website didn't go online again or resurface anywhere, and he's been having money problems. Actually had the nerve to complain to the D.A. earlier this week and accuse them of freezing his assets, threatening to sic his army of lawyers on us if we didn't fix it. He was probably just trying not to show any weakness to his business partners. Not let on that his resources had gone dry. He owed some unpleasant people a lot of money he suddenly couldn't pay back anymore. Next thing we know, he's found dead in a shipping container at the harbor."

Between the website going dark and McCullen's accounts being frozen, warning bells sound in Tommy's head. Child's play for someone with the right skills, the dedication and no moral qualms, especially when that someone also had access to McCullen's servers. Back at Eden, Tommy had assumed that Charlie was intending to get intel, but in hindsight, it seems far more likely that he planted a virus, a trigger that he only needed to activate at the right time. 

"That easy, huh?"

"A bad guy got what he deserved, and people are a little safer for a while." Catherine shrugs. "I'm not going to lose any sleep over it."

Tommy laughs quietly, without mirth. "We encouraging vigilantism now?"

She narrows her eyes. "Who's talking about vigilantism? From what I gather, it's a chain of circumstances that turned out rather unfortunate for McCullen. I don't see anyone pulling the strings. Unless you know anything you haven't told me?" 

It's not a rhetorical question. She's giving him that piercing look usually reserved for suspects.

Tommy's eyes flicker to the board where the photographs of the victims are still pinned. Happy profile photos from social media accounts, and the horrifying screen captures from the movies. A nightmarish before-and-after scenario. 

He runs a tired hand over his face. "No, you're right. I'm looking for some connection that doesn't exist. Just trying to make sense of it all, I guess."

The speculative expression stays on Catherine's face for a moment before her features soften. "I get it. Go home, Tommy. It's been a long month, and we did what we could to stick it to him. The site is gone. Let's take this as a win, even if it wasn't ours."

*

When he opens the door, the first thing he hears is moaning, the muffled but unmistakable noises of sex over a backdrop of generic dance music. For a moment he thinks he left the window open and it comes from the back alley or one of the neighboring apartments, then he briefly wonders if someone broke into his place just to fuck. It's Brooklyn. That'd be just the kind of freaky thing that happens here. But then there's a bitten-off groan that sounds just a little too familiar, and he realizes that he's in fact listening to _himself_ getting off. 

It doesn't surprise him to step into the bedroom and find his laptop sitting on the bed, screen angled towards the open door, running a video recording of him and Charlie at Eden. 

He walks in and moves to shut it down, but gets distracted by the look on Charlie's face, the blush on his skin, the way his eyes keep fluttering shut and his cheeks hollow out as he blows Tommy. In the video, Tommy gasps, and the sound is loud enough to be clearly audible despite the steady beat of music. 

The funny thing is, he can't even remember making any of those noises, can't remember his hips pushing upwards towards Charlie's welcoming mouth, can't remember his fingers carding through Charlie's hair. But it's right there in HD resolution and Dolby Digital, so he must have done all of those things. 

He's so engrossed in the recording that it takes him too long to notice that he's not alone.

The realization makes him tense. But there's only two people who'd have any interest in breaking into his apartment, leaving the video and then having the audacity to stick around. One of them is in the morgue with three gun shot wounds, which leaves Charlie, who he hasn't heard from since the aborted call. They didn't exactly part on good terms.

Tommy doesn't bother turning around to look at him. "I take it that's not the only copy."

"I took the liberty of keeping one for myself." The voice is closer than expected, making him jump a little. "But that's not what you mean, is it, Tommy? This isn't an attempt at blackmail. I'm hurt that you'd imply I would do such a thing." 

Tommy snorts. "Right." He looks around and comes face to face with the familiar mask, soft brown leather and the long, curved beak making it hard to read Charlie's expression. 

His heart beats up a storm and he tells himself the adrenaline rush is fear. It's the implication of threat that comes with the disguise, and Charlie blocking the doorway setting him on edge, even if he has his gun at his back and could easily overpower Charlie if he had to. 

"Then why? Why the video, why come here?"

"I thought I'd come to collect a debt." The flash of panic Tommy feels at the words, expecting the old cycle of blame and grudges to finally lead to retribution, must be showing on his face because Charlie's lips twitch beneath the beak of his mask. "Not that kind of debt."

"Then what— Oh." Charlie's parting text the night at the club comes to his mind, and sharp relief mingles with the stir of arousal. He shakes his head. "Only you would show up in that mask just for a booty call." He tries to hide his amusement, but it's a losing battle.

Charlie reaches for the mask, like he's about to take it off, and Tommy reacts without thinking, fingers wrapping around Charlie's wrist. 

"Leave it on," he says before he can think better of it. Under his fingertips, he feels Charlie's pulse speeding up.

Almost immediately after, he regrets the impulse that made him stop Charlie and how much it might have revealed, but it's too late now. Charlie cocks his head and looks at him. Even through the mask's eye holes, his curiosity is plainly visible, unsettling enough to prickle at the back of Tommy's neck. 

"You keep surprising me, Tommy." Charlie's voice is pleased and soft like velvet, and it goes straight to Tommy's cock.

He swallows against the lump in his throat and slowly, gracelessly, drops to his knees. Only the sharp intake of breath betrays how much the gesture affects Charlie. Otherwise, he remains a picture of unshaken composure. 

Maybe it's only an illusion, though. When he lifts Tommy's chin with long, steady fingers, their eyes meet, and Charlie's are dark and unfocused with desire. It makes Tommy feel a little less off-balance, knowing Charlie wants this just as much. 

He traces Tommy's lips with two fingers, the touch feather-light at first, then more insistent until Tommy's mouth opens. Charlie pushes inside, pressing down against Tommy's tongue before withdrawing, then repeating the motion. Again and again, until there's not an inch of Tommy's mouth he hasn't explored.

"You look so good, kneeling for me. So tempting. But it's not what I had in mind." He doesn't stop moving his fingers in and out of Tommy's mouth slowly, almost dreamily, and Tommy has a hard time focusing on his words. "I want to fuck you. Would you like that?" 

There are a lot of things Tommy wants to do with Charlie, and none of them are healthy impulses. The idea of bending over for Bubonic should scare him, not turn the flickering embers of arousal into a wildfire.

He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a steadying breath, twirling his tongue around Charlie's fingers a final time before letting them slide from his lips. When he looks up, his gaze traces the mask, willing himself to come to his senses and tell Charlie to go to hell. From this angle, he can see Charlie's mouth under the mask, the way his teeth are worrying at his lower lip. It's that fucking uncertainty, the chink in his armor, that undoes Tommy.

"How do you want me?" 

It earns him the hint of a smile. "Against the wall."

Tommy nods and gets up, deliberately brushing against Charlie as he walks past him. He faces the brick-lined wall next to the bed and steadies himself, forearms resting against the rough surface. 

The floorboards creak as Charlie steps closer. Tommy expects the touch, but when a hand trails down his back from the nape of his neck along his spine, a shiver runs through him. He involuntarily arches his back – towards Charlie or away from him, he isn't sure.

The hand stills, and Tommy doesn't understand the hesitation before he suddenly remembers the gun in his waistband. There's a moment of gut-punching panic when Charlie pulls it out, and every single fibre of Tommy's body freezes.

Charlie tuts disapprovingly. "Hardly my style, Tommy. If I wanted to ruin you, I wouldn't need a gun. I'm not that uncreative."

With a soft thud, the gun lands on the mattress next to the laptop.

"That's comforting," Tommy says, sarcasm heavy in his tone even as his muscles relax from their temporary paralysis. Charlie's hand returns to the sensitive spot between Tommy's shoulder blades, warmth seeping into his skin through the worn cotton of his shirt. Despite what Charlie just told him, it feels like reassurance. Tommy lets himself lean into the touch.

Reaching around him, Charlie opens his pants with deft fingers before hooking into his waistband and tugging both jeans and boxers over his hips, letting gravity take care of the rest. They slide down and pool around his ankles. It makes him feel exposed and vulnerable, different from the other day, with his back turned and his pants down. The feeling goes to his head, only serving to heighten his arousal when a single finger traces the crack of his ass. It's barely more than a teasing touch but enough to make the blood rush to Tommy's cock.

He lets his head sink against the wall and closes his eyes, spreading his feet as far as the confines of his pants let him.

"So eager," Charlie mutters. 

Is it praise or a jibe? Tommy can't tell, his emotions and senses in turmoil.

"Tell me, Tommy, how often did you fantasize about this in the last three weeks? Did you close your eyes and remember how my mouth felt around your cock when you beat off in the shower in the mornings before you left for work?" He briefly presses up against Tommy, front to back. The denim of his jeans rubs roughly against Tommy's ass. His nerve endings are on fire. Even through layers of clothing, he can feel how hard Charlie is, and he can't resist pushing back against the body behind him.

The hard edges of the mask's beak brush against Tommy's neck when Charlie leans in, and his voice drops to a low whisper. "Because I did. I spent those last twenty days thinking about you, thinking about this. I'm not used to being that distracted. Every time I was trying to focus on coding, all I could think of was how you looked stretched out on that couch, making those noises. You've become quite the nuisance."

"You're the one who started it," Tommy protests.

"Maybe. I just didn't think you'd let me take it that far. Or that you'd respond quite so readily."

Charlie takes a step back, and Tommy immediately misses the contact, the feel of a warm, solid body against his. A moment later, lube-slick fingers trail down his ass, circling his hole and pushing inside past the initial resistance. It's almost too much, too fast. But Tommy is too far gone to care about the burn, wants this too badly. 

Charlie was right. He did think about this. He can't count the times he went to bed after a frustrating day at the precinct and the memories of the night at the club popped into his mind the moment his hand snaked into his boxers. 

It was simple enough at first, jerking off while imagining the way Charlie looked up at him with a mouthful of his cock. Nothing Tommy felt conflicted about it. They hooked up; it was hot. Sex was sex, disregarding the circumstances. Except he's always been shit at compartmentalizing. It's impossible to think about Charlie and ignore that he's Bubonic, and the knowledge kept bleeding into his fantasies, making him imagine what it'd be like to be at the mercy of the master hacktivist. It scared the shit out of him – still does, now that his shameful little fantasy is unfolding in real life. Just not enough to drown out the white noise of arousal.

Charlie's fingers push deep into him, stretching him. Short, blunt nails scrape over his prostate, making him jerk forward. A brief, white-hot stab of pleasure, but it's not enough. Sweat prickles on his forehead, a single drop running down the side of his face, tickling. He rubs his head against his stretched, straining arms.

"Please," he whines.

He fully expects Charlie to deny him. Draw it out, make him beg some more and provide a running commentary on Tommy's neediness. But the only sound he makes is a small, low-pitched moan. He withdraws his fingers, leaving Tommy feeling empty and desperate, cock throbbing painfully.

The sound of a zipper being undone makes him tense with anticipation. Then the blunt head of Charlie's cock presses against his entrance, ever so slowly pushing inside, and all Tommy can think of is, _fucking finally_. It burns and stretches him, splitting him wide open, and it's the worst and the best feeling in the world.

"Shit, yeah," he groans, dropping his head forward.

It takes mere seconds and endless hours until Charlie is fully sheathed inside of him. His hands have settled on Tommy's hips, grip tightening as he pushes into him. By now, his fingers are digging so tightly into soft flesh and taut muscles that they're probably going to leave bruises, the pressure edging on pain. It becomes a solid, steadying counterpoint to the sharp pleasure as Charlie starts moving inside of him. 

The thrusts build up a rhythm, measured and precise, starting off shallow and becoming deeper and more forceful. The initial burn fades quickly, and the friction is all slick and smooth and tense. Broken moans tumble from Tommy's throat when Charlie gets the angle just right. He could come just from this, he thinks, hips pushing back to meet Charlie halfway. 

But clearly, that's not what Charlie had in mind. He reaches around one hand and wraps it about Tommy's cock. His fingers are still slick with the remnants of lube, warm from the tight grip they had on Tommy's hips. He knows exactly how firm to take hold and how fast to move, jerking Tommy off in time with his thrusts even as they become erratic and frenzied.

"Come on," Tommy gasps, breath ragged and fast. He can feel his orgasm within reach, so close, and chases it down, edging Charlie on. "Yeah. Just like that." 

With a muttered curse, Charlie pulls his hips back roughly. His fingers dig hard into the already sore marks, and then he comes, striping Tommy's insides hot and wet. 

The feel of Charlie's seed spilling into him, his cock spasming deep in his ass, is almost enough to send Tommy over the edge. A few more sloppy strokes, Charlie's thumb edging over the head of his cock, spreading the precum and pressing down against the slit – that's all it takes to tip him over. Shakes run through his body. He grunts and bites his lip to stop himself from shouting Charlie's name. White stripes of come land on the carmine bricks like abstract, obscene graffiti.

The orgasm wrecks him in a way none of his solo endeavors did. It leaves him boneless and sated, sinking forward against the wall that feels pleasantly cool against his overheated skin. The rough texture chafes against his hyper-sensitized nerves endings, but making himself move seems too much of an effort.

He can't stop a sound of protest as Charlie pulls out of him, the loss of sensation leaving him bereft, cutting through the afterglow. He reaches down to pull up his boxers and jeans, wincing at the stickiness but too anxious to cover himself to care. Before he turns around, he takes a few measured breaths, in and out, until his heartbeat is steady again, until the soft, floaty feeling in his head has dulled and he can steel himself to look at Charlie.

Charlie still stands close. He's wiping his hands with a tissue from the box on Tommy's nightstand, methodically cleaning his fingers, gaze fixed on the task as though it demands his full attention. His hands are shaking. It's oddly endearing. 

He only looks up when Tommy closes the distance between them.

This time, Tommy is the one who reaches for the mask, pulling it up and out of the way. It carelessly drops to the floor as he leans in for a kiss, his hand curving around the back of Charlie's neck and pulling him in.

They kissed at the club, but that was different. There's no element of performance now, no need to make it look convincing to someone else, no hidden agenda. And yet it feels as though the stakes are higher. 

He rests his forehead against Charlie's for a moment and inhales, cursing under his breath.

Charlie chuckles and breaks away. He fastens his pants and takes the mask from the floor, dusting it off with too much care, his fingers moving over the leather surface like a caress. When he looks up again, Tommy tenses and braces himself for the kind of remark that will cut him right open. Between the other night and today, he's given Charlie the means to ruin him in plenty of ways, and he's certainly not lacking motive or opportunity.

There's something _knowing_ about the lopsided smile Charlie gives him, like he's only too well aware what direction Tommy's thoughts are taking. 

"Looks like you still owe me one," he says. Perhaps Tommy imagines it, but there's something different about the amused curl of his voice. It almost sounds fond.

Tommy tries and fails to hide the twitch of his mouth. "Looks like it. Guess I'll be seeing you around, then?" What's meant to be a quip turns into a question.

"Oh, you can count on it." Charlie turns to go. "Goodbye for now, Detective."

Tommy nods his goodbye. "Bubonic," he says, pointedly. 

There has been zero confusion about Charlie's identity since Eden, certainly not since the phone call and Charlie showing up here wearing that mask, but the verbal acknowledgement still feels heavy and loaded. 

Halfway out of the door, Charlie turns back to him. "I'll send you a copy of the recording from today, in case you want a visual replay."

The recording — Tommy frowns. "What recording?"

Charlie sends a pointed look to the bed, and Tommy follows his gaze, only now noticing the blinking blue light next to the laptop's webcam, and the way Charlie must have altered the angle of the screen earlier. 

"Son of a bitch," he mutters.

He turns back around to glare at Charlie and give him a piece of his mind, but Bubonic's already gone, his laughter echoing through the stairway.

The End.


End file.
